


Kismet

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ian knows with a certainty he can no longer try to deny that he isn’t meant to fall in love with Anthony. Not in this lifetime.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kismet

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of my fic.

This is how Ian meets Anthony:

“So, uh, I guess we have to work together, huh?”

A distracted hum. “I guess so.”

“My name’s Ian.” A quick smile to show that he’s actually really friendly and would appreciate it if the boy before him made an effort to get to know him better. “I’m new here.”

A nod. “I’m Anthony.”

“Nice to meet you, Anthony.”

Anthony doesn’t say it back.

It is years after when Ian realizes that it’s probably because back then, Anthony didn’t think it was nice to meet him. He doesn’t mention it to Anthony, of course, but it stays in the back of his mind, something to ponder upon when it’s late at night and he can’t sleep. It doesn’t bother him, not really. After all, opinions about people constantly change.

Ian shakes his head ruefully. His opinion about Anthony is a prime example of that.

-.-.-.-

Some people call it fate. Others call it destiny.

Ian knows for a fact that _it_ is not an _it_ , but rather a _she_ , and she is called Mistress Kismet.

While people would like to believe that they have choices, Ian actually knows better. He knows that no one is free, not really, because everyone is governed by fate. Everyone’s lives are controlled by Mistress Kismet, and there is nothing anyone can do but accept the cards that Mistress Kismet has dealt.

This is something he learns the hard way.

-.-.-.-

Ian falls in love with Anthony during a peaceful summer day, both of them seated on Anthony’s bed. Anthony is lying on his back and humming something under his breath, his eyes closed. He looks peaceful, Ian remembers thinking, his breaths sure and steady, his face free from worry.

He wants to kiss him.

It’s a realization that hits him with so much force that it actually leaves him a bit breathless. He looks down at his best friend and thinks, _oh_.

All of a sudden, the world _stops_.

The calm and lazy air inside Anthony’s bedroom is replaced by a sudden stillness that makes Ian’s hair stand on its end. He no longer feels comfortable—instead, he feels like death had just passed.

It is not a pleasant feeling.

Ian blinks, shocked. There are no words, he thinks as he looks around him and sees everything unmoving, as if he were in a movie and the movie was stuck on _pause_. Outside the window, he sees a bird paused mid-flight, somehow unaffected by gravity.

He hears a quiet cough, and he turns around, his eyes widening when he sees a woman with alabaster skin and vivid violet eyes. Her waist-length raven black hair accentuates the shape of her face and the sharpness of her cheekbones. Her redder-than-blood lips are pursed.

Ian knows she is not happy.

She tilts her head a bit to the side, seeming regal just from that precise movement. “You are Ian, correct?”

It’s not a question, not really. It’s more of a statement. They both know that she—whoever she is—does not quite need Ian’s answer, or really, Ian’s anything, to proceed with what she has planned. In a world put on pause by her command, Ian is powerless to do anything.

Still a bit wordless, he nods quickly.

She raises an eyebrow at his hurried movement, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s an illusion, Ian knows—powerful beings like her do not need to breathe.

When she opens her eyes, she gives him a long nod, before saying, “I am Lady Kismet, or Mistress Kismet. Whichever you prefer.”

She seems disinterested, as if Ian is less worthy of her time than dirt under the soles of shoes, or gum stuck underneath a table. Ian finds that he does not mind—he actually kind of prefers it, really. He would rather be uninteresting than be the subject of her scrutiny.

She looks at him, and Ian feels a bit like collapsing to the floor. “You will do no such thing,” she states simply, her tone haughty.

Ian furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Pardon?” he asks, and his eyebrows raise when he sees her eyes narrow, as if offended that he _dared_ ask her what the hell she meant.

She closes her eyes, and the lines on her forehead smoothen out. “Do you know what Kismet means, Ian?” she asks quietly, managing to say his name with disgust evident in her tone.

He shakes his head, choosing not to answer in fear of offending her even further.

Mistress Kismet is wearing a floor-length body-hugging dress that looks made from laces, silks, and, oddly enough, _clouds_. The dress is dark red, not quite unlike the color of dried blood, and he watches as it swishes upon the floor as she walks towards him.

“Kismet,” she states simply, her steps light on the floor. “I believe you mortals know it better by the name of _fate_.”

Ian watches her stand beside him, her violet eyes looking outside the window, and feels his heart beat faster in his chest.

Truth be told, Ian has never been the type to believe in something as ludicrous as _fate_. Fate is, in his experience, something people blame for their mistakes. Now, there is a woman with skin whiter than snow standing beside him while the rest of the world is paused, claiming to be someone called _Lady Kismet_.

Ian thinks he’s dreaming. He pinches himself surreptitiously, wincing when his nails bite into his skin. He bites his lip as he thinks about what situation he’s in now—barely minutes ago, he just realized that he sort of had a thing for his best friend, and now he’s the only living _human being_ moving and Fate is standing beside him.

How the hell does he get himself into these situations?

“You will do no such thing,” Kismet says quietly.

Again, he is confused. “What?”

She sends him a sharp look through the corner of her eyes. “Kiss him. You will do no such thing.”

Ian shakes his head. “Who are you to decide that?”

Her lips quirk into a smile, almost. “ _Fate_.”

She disappears, and the world turns again. Ian watches Anthony continue to breathe in deeply through his nose, watches the bird fly away outside the window.

Somewhere, a clock ticks.

-.-.-.-

Anthony is so very easy to love.

It’s something Ian could have carried on not knowing, something he could have gone without, but it worms its way under his skin and into his veins. It is information that suddenly spreads from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He knows it intimately the way he knows how to breathe, how to speak.

It’s difficult knowing this. His hands long to touch and his lips long to taste. He wants to give, to take, to have his heart beat in sync with Anthony’s. He wants to kiss and be kissed.

He wants the chance to be able to do these things.

With Mistress Kismet watching his every thought and action though, it is impossible. Even though his hand itches to rub Anthony’s back when he’s stressed, it’s something he just has to ignore.

What else is he supposed to do?

-.-.-.-

“You look tired,” Ian says, watching Anthony blink a couple of times, his eyes glazed over with drowsiness. “Go to sleep. I’ll help you edit this tomorrow.”

Anthony shakes his head, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the large screen before him. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll get this done,” he says, yawning.

Ian raises an eyebrow. Anthony looks like death, his pale skin emphasizing the dark bags under his eyes. His normally alert eyes are now struggling to stay open and his attempts at keeping himself from yawning are less than successful. “You look dead on your feet. Seriously, go to sleep.”

Anthony shoots him a grin, though it lacks its usual brightness. The smile just makes him look more tired, Ian thinks, getting more concerned by the second. “But I’m not standing on my feet, see?”

Ian rolls his eyes, placing one hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Go to sl—” His eyebrows raise, feeling Anthony’s too-warm skin under his thin shirt. It is then when he notices the way Anthony is slightly shivering despite the warmth in the room. Quickly, he puts a hand to Anthony’s forehead, his brows furrowing when he feels just how hot Anthony is.

“Go to sleep, Anthony,” Ian says, barely resisting the urge to grab Anthony and drag him away from the computer and into his room. “I’m serious. You’re burning up.”

He’s able to keep the worry from making itself known in his tone of voice, but only just.

Anthony has always been stubborn, Ian thinks as he watches Anthony shake his head.

“I’m fine,” Anthony protests quietly, his eyes on the screen before him.

“I don’t even think you can see what’s on your screen,” Ian says, finally allowing himself to take Anthony’s hand from the mouse.

Touching Anthony—even small, fleeting touches like these—has always been a pleasure of its own, something Ian doesn’t allow himself to have much often for fear of getting addicted, like a druggie needing his fix. Now that he has allowed himself to have one moment though, he spares a few seconds to appreciate the feeling of having Anthony’s skin against his. On the few occasions that he allowed himself to let their hands brush, there had always been some kind of fire that seemed to spark to life. This moment is no exception, Ian is pleased to note, feeling the way his hand seem to tingle in pleasure.

“Look, Anthony. You don’t really have to finish this tonight,” Ian says, putting two hands under Anthony’s armpits and helping him stand up, his muscles straining under the heavy weight. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but here goes—you’re sick.”

Anthony weakly allows himself to be half-carried, half-dragged to his room, his head lolling on Ian’s shoulder. His right arm rests on Ian’s right shoulder and Ian smiles softly, allowing himself to bask in the feeling of belongingness.

The walk to Anthony’s bedroom is short and silent, what with Ian being too busy thinking about whether or not Lady Kismet will appear, and Anthony being too tired to speak. When they get to Anthony’s bedroom, Ian carefully deposits Anthony on the bed. He helps him get under the covers, his hands firm but careful.

“You’re awesome,” Anthony says sleepily, eyes already closed.

Ian smiles and thinks, _so are you_. He doesn’t say it though, choosing instead to let his hand gently brush away an errant lock of hair covering Anthony’s closed eye.

He wants to take care of this man. He wants to kiss him. Most of all, he wants to have the _right_ to do those things.

He blinks, and the moment he opens his eyes, he knows _she’s_ there. Ian would like to say that it’s the air somewhat _changing_ that alerts him to her presence, but he knows that’s not the truth. Rather, it’s the way he looks down at Anthony and sees him frozen still, like a man trapped in endless sleep.

It’s a terrifying thing to imagine, if Ian’s to be honest.

He doesn’t want to look at Lady Kismet. He doesn’t want to turn away from Anthony and hear that he has no right to love the man, as if it’s something he _chose—_ as if falling in love with him is a choice Ian can make.

Months have gone by since that fateful day in Anthony’s bedroom— _here,_ Ian realizes with a low chuckle—when Lady Kismet first made her presence known, and she has visited many times since, yet Ian still can’t get used to her presence—the way his hair seem to stand on end, the way his heart beats faster.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he says, because he _does_. It’s going to be yet another speech about why he’s not the right man for Anthony, about why he should not ruin _Fate’s_ plans. “You don’t have to tell me again.”

“Oh, but I _do,_ ” Kismet says, and it’s _vicious_ , coming out of her mouth, like she’s firing bullets instead of speaking words. Ian barely resists the urge to cower down and hide, her voice so very domineering in the eerie silence of the room. “No matter how many times I tell you not to do these things, you do them anyway!”

Ian finally faces Mistress Kismet, his anger giving him the courage to face Kismet’s vivid violet eyes. He’s vaguely aware that his hands have balled into fists by his sides, focusing instead on the way hatred and disgust seem to war beneath the surface of Kismet’s eyes.

Good, he thinks, because those are the exact same things he feels towards her.

Ian shakes his head slowly, unbelieving, because all this time and she _still_ doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get that he has no choice, that it isn’t something he can’t just stop at his whim and fancy. She doesn’t understand that it’s something as natural as breathing to him, and that to make him stop loving Anthony would be like making him stop his heart from beating.

It just isn’t done.

“You think,” he says softly, not wanting to pierce the silence, “that I have a choice in this. You think I can just stop caring for him, can just stop not wanting him. You know what? Fuck _fate_ ,” he says, hysterical laughter building in his throat, struggling to get out in his frustration. “Fuck fate, because you don’t care about me, or him, a bit. Not one bit.”

Kismet purses her lips, shaking his head. “It’s you who is wrong. It has never been a question of whether or not _I_ care, but whether or not _you_ do. This man,” she says, sparing a glance at Anthony who is still lying on the bed, unmoving in this tiny pocket hidden from the folds of time, “has a _fate_ —a destiny—and you are doing all the things that _shouldn’t_ be done to get this man to where he belongs.”

Ian feels a pang in his heart, and he closes his eyes, not wanting Kismet to see the heartbreak he knows is reflected in his eyes.

It hurts to be told that Anthony doesn’t belong with him.

Mistress Kismet walks away from Ian, and Ian doesn’t turn to look at her. He feels too weak, too vulnerable, too _exposed_. He doesn’t want to give her more ammunition.

“I never thought that you had a choice in this,” she says, and her tone of voice is commanding, too loud in a space so still, “because you don’t. Anthony is not meant for you, and it will do you well to remember that.”

His eyes are trained on Anthony when she leaves, vaguely aware of the way Anthony starts to breathe again—in, out, in, out. His eyes stare at Anthony’s sleeping form, unseeing, and he remains standing in the room despite the darkness, Kismet’s words still ringing in his ears.

Ian knows with a certainty he can no longer try to deny that he isn’t meant to fall in love with Anthony.

Not in this lifetime.

-.-.-.-

Anthony meets Kalel.

Ian feels his heart break a little bit.

-.-.-.-

There is an interview.

Anthony is his usual put-together self, seated beside Ian as he smiles charmingly at the interviewer. Ian can’t remember her name— _Josie? Jane? Jenny?_ —and he isn’t really paying much attention to the questions or the audience, despite appearing on television being a huge thing for both of them.

The interviewer— _Janine? Jenica? Jessie?_ —asks, “where do you see yourselves in the future?”

Anthony smiles and says, “hopefully, still doing what we love doing.”

Ian thinks: _not with him_.

-.-.-.-

“Why are you here?”

Kismet regards Ian with a haughty expression, one sleek eyebrow raised. Ian is no longer affected by her disapproving glares and looks of contempt—he has long stopped caring about what she thought of him.

“You never learn,” she simply states, her voice too loud in the deafening silence of the room.

Ian looks at where Anthony is seated on the couch, his previously animated eyes now glazed over, an effect of the pausing of time. His laptop is on his lap, and without even looking on the screen, Ian knows that the funny Youtube video Anthony was showing him is paused as well.

He wants to touch Anthony’s hand so very much, wants to assure himself that Anthony is still there, that Kismet would never harm him. He wants to ground himself in the knowledge that Anthony is alive and well, and that when time resumes, he will still be there, happy and content with what life has given him.

Ian keeps his hands on his lap. He isn’t allowed to do those things.

“I didn’t even do anything,” he says quietly, because rage has left him a long time ago, replaced only by sadness.

Kismet shakes her head. “Yes, you did.”

She disappears, and time continues on. Ian hears Anthony’s laugh in his ears, and he faces him, a smile already tugging the corners of his lips.

This is his life, he thinks. He is meant to love someone only during pauses in time.

-.-.-.-

Kalel is beautiful.

Of course, Anthony has a million other adjectives to describe her, and that’s not yet counting the adjectival phrases. Ian knows this because, as the best friend, it is his job to agree with Anthony’s praises. It is his job to say that _yes_ , Anthony is lucky to have met her.

To be honest, it isn’t really a hardship. Kalel _is_ beautiful—Ian can admit that, at least. It’s just that, Anthony is more beautiful than her, he believes.

And it is she who is lucky to have him, not the other way around.

-.-.-.-

Kismet is unpredictable.

She has been visiting Ian for months now, and yet he cannot quite pin her down. There are times when time just stops and she just appears, seemingly for no good reason, and there are times when Ian knows with astounding clarity just why she is there, standing in front of him.

Ian notices the shift in his surroundings and opens his eyes, eyebrows furrowed in confusion when he sees Mistress Kismet standing in front of him, her normally contemptuous violet eyes glazed over with confusion. He turns his head and finds Anthony seated on the other couch, his eyes focused on Ian even during this little moment that is lost in time. He sits up slowly, not wanting to disturb the aura of confusion that surrounds Lady Kismet.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kismet looks… _lost._

Ian waits for a moment, then says, “what is it?”

Kismet shakes her head. In the dim lighting of the afternoon sun, her violet eyes look almost _plum_ -colored. Half her face is shrouded in shadow, and the other half is bathed in golden hues from the light streaming in through the curtains.

There is a tragedy there that Ian cannot ever match.

He watches her look at Anthony for a few moments, and sees the anguish in her eyes. He didn’t ever think he would feel bad for her, too busy being angry at her and at the world for not letting him have _this_ , and yet, here he is.

“You’re different, aren’t you?” she asks softly. Ian knows she isn’t really asking for an answer, so he remains silent, his eyes still focused on her.

When Ian blinks, Kismet is gone and he is lying on the couch.

He wonders if it was just a dream.

-.-.-.-

That night, he dreams of Anthony and Kalel.

He is wearing an old suit, and she, a gown made of lace and silk.

Everything is in sepia, like he is watching a video from the olden days.

Ian feels like he doesn’t quite belong.

-.-.-.-

They’re filming Lunchtime with Smosh when time next stops.

It’s actually night time, and they’re not really eating lunch—it’s more of a dinner now, he believes. Anthony is seated across him, smiling as he chews on his pasta, his left hand outstretched, holding onto their camera.

Abruptly, time stops.

“I didn’t even do anythi—” Ian says, turning his head.

He stops when he doesn’t see Kismet. Instead of alabaster white skin and vivid violet eyes, he sees skin the color of malt whisky and steel-gray eyes. Her bright white hair is beautifully arranged in a bun on the top of her hair, a few ringlets escaping the bun and framing her face.

Ian blinks, confused.

“Hello, Ian,” the woman says with a kind smile, her tone pleasant.

Ian blinks twice before nodding, still a little bit wordless. He watches the woman approach him slowly, unnerved.

“I’m Lady Circumstance,” she says, still looking at him with kindness in her eyes. Ian already knows he will like her better than Kismet, despite knowing about her for only a few minutes.

The first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “you’re not expecting me to call you by _that_ , are you?”

Circumstance lets out a surprised laugh, the corners of her eyes crinkling in delight. She looks at Ian fondly, and Ian finds himself feeling refreshed, too used to the disgusted looks Kismet always threw him.

“I don’t,” she assures him, pulling out the chair next to his and sitting down. It hits him then, how Kismet never, in all the months she visited him, sat down, much less sit down beside him.

“Where’s Lady Kismet?” Ian asks, genuinely curious.

Circumstance smiles kindly, before replying cryptically, “wherever she is when she is not here.”

“Very helpful,” he comments lightly.

She shrugs, tilting her head to the side. “She hasn’t been very helpful to _you_ , has she?”

Ian wonders if his answer will come to bite him in the ass one day. “Not really, no.”

“Then you don’t need to know where she is,” Circumstance says, turning to look at Anthony. For a few moments, Ian watches her watch Anthony with a kind of sadness lurking behind her gray eyes, content to let the comfortable silence continue on. After a few moments, Ian directs his gaze to Anthony as well, relishing in the opportunity to be able to look at Anthony for as long as he wants.

“It’s sad, what she tried to do,” she says softly, her eyes on the camera in Anthony’s hand.

Ian narrows his eyes. “What did she try to do?”

Circumstance looks at him and shakes her head. “The thing about Fate— _Kismet_ —is that she clings to the past. Too set in her ways, the others say, and I have to say that I agree.”

Ian is more confused than ever. “What? What do you mean?” he asks, watching Circumstance stand up from her seat and putting it back before walking away.

She merely smiles at him, kind, and says, “it’s nice meeting you, Ian.”

In a blink of an eye, she’s gone.

-.-.-.-

“I’m moving out.”

There is a dull roar in Ian’s ears. Vaguely, he’s aware of his heart beating too fast and too loud, aware of his mouth shaping words like _okay_ , and _why_ , and _when_.

Mostly, though, he’s aware of how much he wants Circumstance to come and pause time for him, even if only for a few minutes.

He can’t quite make himself look at Anthony, so he busies himself with the script on the screen, his eyes staring, yet unseeing. He doesn’t quite know if he’s being believably nonchalant during this moment, doesn’t quite know if he looks casual, as if his whole world isn’t crashing to pieces around him.

He doesn’t believe in a god, but he wishes that to Anthony, he looks fine. Unruffled.

That he looks like the best friend he’s supposed to be.

It shouldn’t surprise him when hatred hits him with such dizzying force, but it does. He wants to say he doesn’t blame anyone, because _why would he blame anyone?_ It’s not like he actually had a chance with Anthony—Lady Fate has knocked all those dreams out of the park—and it’s not like he has a right to ask Anthony to _stay_. The thing is, though—he _does_ blame someone.

He blames himself.

He _hates_ that summer day when he saw Anthony relaxed, _hates_ that he thought of kissing his best friend. He _hates_ Lady Kismet and her bullshit ideas, _hates_ that he can’t quite stop being jealous of Kalel even though he has no right to be.

He _hates_ that he has no right.

Clearing his throat, Ian looks up at Anthony, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Anthony smiles at him, giddy, and says, “Kalel.”

Ian knows that he lost before the game even begun.

But this isn’t a game, is it? It is torture, and it is a play meant only for the actors who are good at pretending, but _never_ a game.

“Congratulations, Anthony,” he says, barely keeping himself from breaking down. He manages to sound sincere, even.

He might not be meant for Anthony, but he’s meant to be his best friend.

And that has to be enough.

-.-.-.-

Ian opens his eyes and _knows_.

“Hello.”

Ian turns his head and smiles sadly at Circumstance.

“I know about what happened,” she says simply. She is seated on a chair, her hands on her lap. She looks somber, her normally bubbly self a lot more silent now.

It unnerves Ian.

Ian bites his lip, unsure of what to say. After all, what does one tell Circumstance?

“I don’t feel okay,” he says instead, his voice shaky. The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels some of the tension leave him, like water spilling down the side of a mug.

It’s liberating.

Circumstance gives him a sad look. “I would be surprised if you did,” she admits. “Kismet really did a number on you two.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “Why won’t you tell me about what she did?” he asks softly, too tired to let anger wash over him.

“Because I gave her a chance to work things out,” Circumstance says, her voice soft and pleasant. Ian knows he isn’t just imagining the doubt lingering in her tone, because he, too, doubts that Kismet, despite being Fate herself, can undo whatever it is she did.

He’s never been the _believe in destiny_ kind of guy, after all.

-.-.-.-

He dreams of horse-drawn carriages and apple trees, of ladies in ball gowns and gentlemen in suits.

He dreams of Anthony’s smile, radiant and kind.

He wakes.

-.-.-.-

Ian blinks and the world _stops_.

He looks at Anthony who is sleeping on the couch, looks at the dark bags under his eyes, looks at his pale skin, looks, looks, _looks_. Watching Anthony is a luxury Ian can’t afford often, still feeling like at any moment, Lady Kismet might appear.

He’s sick of feeling uncertain.

“She can’t undo it.”

Ian looks at Circumstance. “Undo what? Tell me.”

Circumstance holds out her hand. “Let me show you instead.”

-.-.-.-

_There is a girl across the large hall. Despite the crowd, despite the multitude of people around, it is her he first notices. It is her milky white skin, her chestnut-brown hair, and her bright smile that draws him in, like a horse with only one direction to go to. In this moment, there are no others._

_He excuses himself from the conversation—he’s sure Joshua would understand, anyway, with him being such a romantic—and walks toward the lady, a smile on his lips and words ready to leave his tongue the moment she sees him. His steps are steady and precise, yet quick—he does not want to be too late in reaching the lovely woman dressed in blue._

_“Good evening,” he greets, and when she turns toward him, a smile on her face, the words die in his throat._

_She is gorgeous._

_“Good evening, sir,” she says pleasantly, bowing her head slightly to show respect._

_The orchestra—and the family really has outdone themselves this year with the scrumptious food and the expensive orchestra—starts to play, the violins and basses marking the beginning of the dance. Soon, the violas start to play as well, becoming part of the harmony with every note, and the pianist starts to play a soothing melody._

_He holds out a hand and puts his most charming smile on his face. “May I have this dance?”_

A beat, and the memory swirls around him, the sepia fading to white before being replaced by another memory altogether.

_“It is such a pleasure to see you again, Madam,” he says, a sincere smile appearing on his lips. He really is glad to see her, for the ball had been a week and a half ago, and her smile still haunts his dreams._

_“And you, sir,” she replies smoothly, bowing once more. “Your family fares well, I hope?”_

_He offers her his arm, and she obliges, curling an arm around his. “Oh yes, they do,” he says. “Thank you for your well wishes.”_

_“Ah, it is nothing compared to the kindness you have shown me,” she says, her eyes still looking straight ahead to the theater where they are both headed. “I do have to confess that it is a surprise seeing you here, sir.”_

_He smiles at her. “I have a soft spot for theater, I must admit, especially those with quick wit and comedic value.” They both nod at the helper standing just inside the intricately-carved oak door, then continue on their way. “I find that during these times of serious business, a little bit of humor from the arts is refreshing.”_

_“Ah, but this is a serious play,” she says, an eyebrow raised. “Surely your time would be better spent doing other things? I understand that a man of your stature has a lot of responsibilities,” she says politely._

_“I believe in making time for pleasure,” he says, before bowing deeply, kissing the back of her hand, and walking away._

Ian blinks, watches another memory unfold in front of him, and says in a choked voice, “stop. Please.”

Circumstance takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

Ian watches sepia fade to black.

-.-.-.-

“What was that?” he asks, still shaken.

Circumstance’s voice is grave when she asks, “haven’t you ever asked yourself why Kismet was so _angry_ with you? Why from the very beginning, she has expressed nothing but _contempt_ for you, when you haven’t done anything wrong?”

Ian shakes his head. At the time, he was far too busy trying to understand that _oh,_ Fate was actually sort of real, and that _oh_ , time stopped. “I didn’t really think about it, to be honest,” he admits softly.

Circumstance smiles at him kindly, before saying softly, “she was angry with you not only because you were in the way of _Fate_ ,” she says, letting out a low chuckle, “but because you were in the way of something she has determined _before_. She was so disgusted, not to mention, _insulted_ , because how dare someone _new_ like yourself mess with a relationship that has happened before?”

Ian is speechless.

In the face of something that is much, _much_ bigger than him, what should he say? Should he graciously accept that no, he is not meant for Anthony in this lifetime, as well as other lifetimes? Should he say he disagrees with fate?

There is a certain kind of heartbreak that comes with not being _the one_ , Ian knows. However, it cannot compare to the kind of gut-wrenching pain he feels at being told, in no uncertain terms, that he will _never_ be the one.

His throat is closed off. There are no words to describe the pain.

The air is still. Vaguely, he thinks that this is the first time he has felt so uncomfortable with Circumstance. He wants to crawl under a rock and hide himself from her assessing gaze, wants to have some time to himself in a world that can be stopped by the appearance of Fate and Circumstance.

He is overly aware of the watch he is wearing, its hands stubbornly remaining in place. He wants to hurl it against a wall, wants to _do_ something—anything—besides just sitting there and trying to swallow down the fact that he will never be part of whatever Kismet has planned for Anthony.

“Please leave,” he finally says after a few minutes. His voice is low and _pleading._ He doesn’t want to look at Circumstance—he just wants her gone.

Circumstance leaves, and Ian watches the hands in his watch resume their circular journey, on, on, _on_.

-.-.-.-

The funny thing about Fate is this: it is easy to say that you are part of someone’s Fate, but you cannot quite as easily say that you are someone’s _destiny_.

Ian realizes this when time stops around him once again. It no longer surprises or phases him—how could it, when it has happened to him so many times already—but it still makes him look instinctively in Anthony’s direction.

“You’ll tell me the truth, right?” he asks, choosing to remain looking at Anthony. He doesn’t think he could look at Circumstance without breaking down.

A pause. Then, slowly, “if it is within my power to do so.”

It is a truthful statement, and Ian finds himself thankful for her honesty, for her choosing not to spout out useless platitudes and sugarcoated words.

“Am I really part of his Fate?” he asks.

“You were always meant to meet each other,” she replies.

He doesn’t ask “ _am I his destiny?_ ”

He knows better than to hurt himself with dreams that have no direction.

-.-.-.-

His arms go slack and his hands slide down the steering wheel.

 _It’s not my fault_ , he thinks for a split-second before everything fades to black.

-.-.-.-

He opens his eyes to an immobilized world.

Lady Circumstance is standing before his bed, a sad smile on her face. “I’m so sorry, but it had to be done.”

“What do you mean?” he croaks, his throat dry.

Circumstance glances to the side for a second, and Ian looks.

There, seated on the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, is Anthony. He is too pale—a fact that is only emphasized by the dark bags under his eyes—and his clothing is rumpled, as if he hasn’t left for something as simple as a shower.

“You were under the impression that you weren’t his destiny,” Circumstance says softly, “when in fact, you _are_. I was waiting for you to ask that, but you never did. That’s why Kismet was so angry with you—you are the real deal, Ian. Kalel hasn’t been the real deal since the 1600’s.”

Ian blinks, not quite believing what he is hearing.

“What happens next?” he asks softly, sadness evident in his tone.

Circumstance tilts her head to the side. “You’re not happy. Why aren’t you happy?”

Ian blinks, and a tear makes its way down his cheek. Still looking at Anthony, he says, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but what happens after this lifetime? I’ll be replaced with someone new, won’t I?”

Circumstance shakes her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Ian blinks, then finally forces himself to look back at Circumstance.

“There were times when you were confused as to why Kismet visited you when you seemingly did nothing wrong, yes?” Circumstance asks.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“Well, it’s because during those times, you _did_ do something she did not like, and that was _making Anthony fall in love with you_ ,” she says, and her words make something inside Ian come to life. “All those times Kismet visited you? I’m willing to bet that you were smiling during those times, or laughing, or just looking plain gorgeous.” She pauses, smiling at him before continuing. “It is when you defy the wishes of something as grand as Fate when you know that it is something that will last.”

Again, Ian is speechless. These kinds of things generally don’t happen to him, after all.

After a few moments, he says, “but—Fate. What happened?”

Circumstance smiles at him, kind.

“Circumstance.”

She leaves, and Ian is once again shrouded in darkness.

-.-.-.-

Everything _hurts_.

His head is throbbing as if a city band chose to hold their next grand parade in his temples, and his legs feel like they’re on fire. Weakly, he opens his eyes, closing them again when he sees the too-bright lights.

A weak moan makes its way out of his throat, and immediately, a hand holds his. It is bigger and rougher than his, and Ian knows without a doubt that it is Anthony’s.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, taking the time to let his eyes adjust to the light, before blinking and smiling at the man seated right by his side.

“Water,” he croaks, and Anthony is quick to give him a cup of water, his careful, careful hands supporting the back of Ian’s head and the cup of water.

It feels good to be touched by Anthony, no matter how platonic it is, Ian thinks.

When he is finished, Anthony places the empty cup on the small bedside table and sits back down, his hand taking Ian’s.

“You worried me, you know,” he admits softly, almost too quiet for Ian to hear.

Key word: _almost_.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not knowing what else to say.

Anthony shakes his head, his chocolate brown eyes focused on their hands. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

Ian is content to let the moment unfold, content to let the silence envelop them both. After all these months of _pining_ , he thinks it’s only fair for Anthony to make the next move.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, and Ian’s heart drops to his stomach. Maybe Circumstance wasn’t really telling the truth. Maybe she just said all those things to make him feel better. Maybe—

“I don’t think I’ll be okay without you.”

Ian smiles.

Maybe they’re okay.

-.-.-.-

In the next life, Anthony meets Ian when they’re both aboard the starship, a humongous thing of beauty that is part of a Commander-class fleet meant for discovering new planets for colonies. Ian is a language and communications officer, and Anthony is one of the many engineers for the Commander-class GT-830 starship. They meet during a crew break in the snowy planet of _Haadighn_ , when Ian accidentally spills his _Draksh_ coffee down Anthony’s uniform in the mess hall.

There is pining and there are misunderstood feelings, not quite unlike the life they had before.

It isn’t really something they’re aware of, at the moment. Now, as Ian and Anthony take a break from video editing and lie on the couch together, Anthony still mindful of Ian’s mostly-healed injuries, they do not know what the future holds.

They do know, however, that they’re okay. That, despite miscommunication and meddling forces of fantasy and nature, they’ve made it.

Fate, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Smosh. I do not make money from this.


End file.
